


A Hive of Memories

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Grief and Loss, Love and Marriage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 04:06:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10608942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: John's limp has returned as he sits waiting on an old friend.





	

          The day Sherlock dies, John’s limp comes back.

          Rosie thinks it is stress, the doctor thinks it is age.

          John knows that it is because the light that was in him has died. Sherlock told him he was his conductor of light, but what the silly man had never realized was that he was the genesis of the light; John was empty and dark without him. All _he_ had ever done was reflect Sherlock’s light back so that he could see it. Without Sherlock he was a shell of a man, broken down, aging and hollow.

          _What am I supposed to do now?_ John felt leaden, heavy, dull. It was more than his eighty years…the buoyancy of loving Sherlock and being loved by him had filled John with life and vigor for decades. Now he was aware of a sensation not unlike hardening cement. His body was thickening, dragged down by gravity, even as his mind, his heart—his soul—was being slowly encased in deadening loss.

          _If I were a dog_ , John reflected, _I would be howling inconsolably_. He wanted to howl, to throw back his head and unleash his grief. Remembering Gladstone’s howls of anguish at the smallest perceived slight, a ghost of a smile passed over John’s face. How Sherlock had loved that smelly old bulldog, and how vigorously he had denied it!

          But John was a soldier, and Captain Watson shall not cry. Besides, he promised Sherlock that he wouldn’t weep over him.

          They had time to prepare, the two of them. Sherlock had finally managed to beat his addiction to cocaine and morphine when Rosie was an infant, and in all those years he had not slipped. But his years of drug abuse, the restricted diet he had followed to allow his mind “clarity” during cases, it had all taken a toll on his heart.

          They had retired some seventeen years ago, when it became clear that the two of them were getting too old to chase criminals through alleyways and over rooftops. Sherlock had actually been the one to suggest it; he pretended it was because John had landed awkwardly and broken his ankle, but it was actually, John knew, because his breathing was becoming labored.

          Too many years of abusing his body and smoking Benson & Hedges had caused him to develop asthma and chronic breathing problems, and the pollution of the city didn’t help. After a few restless years, they packed up their belongings and moved to Sussex. Sherlock was finally able to study his beloved bees, and John settled in to writing his memoirs. Rosie was just finished with school then and she came to visit, but mostly she was off on her own adventures.

          There were times when the silence and peace of the countryside was too much for them, and they would rage and fight; Sherlock would sulk and John would ignore him. But they always came back together, unable to be apart. They had many happy years here together, and John, five years Sherlock’s senior, had begun, some ten years before, to prepare himself for the idea of dying first.

          He didn’t want to leave Sherlock, to leave Rosie or his grandchildren. This life was sweet and John hated the idea of leaving the people he loved behind. Selfishly, he wished to live forever, not just for them, but for himself. But also because he feared what would happen to Sherlock if he were left alone after John died. But then a few years ago it became clear that they wouldn’t have to worry about that. Sherlock fell ill, first with a cold, then bronchitis, complicated by pneumonia.

          After several weeks in the hospital, he was finally released, and John had taken him home. But the long-term news wasn’t good; Sherlock’s heart was failing him.

          “I spent forty years denying I had a heart,” Sherlock had admitted quietly to John one night, when he woke to pee and found Sherlock’s side of the bed empty. His husband was sitting in his old chair, bathed in moonlight from the open window. John had urged him back to bed, and they settled under the covers, their aging bodies nestling perfectly together. “I thought I’d have more time to make up for it, to love you.”

          “No one has loved me more perfectly than you,” John whispered fiercely, holding him tightly. They kissed, and despite their age and the intervening years, the passion was as powerful as it had been from the day they met.

          John closed his eyes now, remembering all the kisses they had exchanged, the embraces too numerous to count, yet somehow each perfectly preserved in his memory. That day of Sherlock’s fortieth birthday, when he had held John as he cried, mourning Mary’s loss, the final walls that had been between them had begun to crumble. The devastating events that followed at Sherrinford had destroyed the last of Sherlock’s defenses, and he had allowed himself to admit to John that his feelings were more than friendship.

          It had come as a relief to John, that moment when he could finally stop pretending. It wasn’t that he hadn’t loved his wife, but the feelings he had for Mary paled in comparison to the depth of love he felt for Sherlock. John had thought for years that it was just friendship, battle-tested, to be sure, but nothing more than a deep friendship and absolute trust. He’d been so blind for so long, and when he at last admitted to himself and to Sherlock that he loved him in return…it had been…incandescent.

          “Shh, Granddad’s sleeping, come away and let him rest.”

          John heard the door to his tiny study snick closed and he opened his eyes. Part of him felt guilty for pretending to be asleep, however he was tired of other people’s well-meaning but empty platitudes, and even the company of his grandchildren felt like a chore to him.

          “For shame, John, playing possum to hide from your grandchildren?”

          “Sherlock,” John’s voice trembled and his face suffused with warmth, his heart soaring as his husband stepped away from the window seat and came to join him in his usual chair in front of the fire. “I wondered when you would come.”

          “But you did not doubt I would come, did you, my John?” Sherlock reached across and held his hand, “None was ever so stalwart as my Watson.”

          “You make me sound like a loyal aide-de-camp,” John grumbled, but he was unable to stop the pleased smile from spreading across his face.

          “I will always come for you, John, you know that not even death can stop me from joining you.”

          “It’s been three days, I thought perhaps you had gotten lost.”

          “Not at all, John, I merely wanted to give you time to focus on the family, and the funeral.”

          “Rosie and Miles have been wonderful, but they’ve hardly left me alone for a minute.” John leaned his head back against his chair, but kept his eyes on Sherlock’s face. “The grandchildren creep around like frightened mice, I guess they think death is catching.”

          “Don’t be in any hurry to join me, John. Rosamunde would be devastated to lose us both so close together.”

          “I know. I miss you, though, you old fool. Our bed is so cold and lonely without you.”

          “And how would you know? You’ve been sleeping in your chair—when you sleep.”

          “Don’t scold me, Sherlock…I can’t bear to go to bed without you.”

          “You could take those pills the doctor left for you.”

          John snorted, “What good would they do? In the morning I would still be alone.”

          “You’re not alone, John, you have Rosamunde and Miles and the children. And you have me.”

          “For how long?” John felt fearful, already worrying about when Sherlock would leave him again. He couldn’t bear to face the emptiness of this house without his husband.

          “For as long as you need me.”

          “Mary didn’t stay all that long,” John reminded him, voice shaking, “She left me one day too.”

          “That’s because you didn’t need her anymore,” Sherlock reminded him, “You came to terms with her loss and your feelings of guilt.”

          “I’ll never get over my loss of you,” John cleared his throat, feeling the threat of tears. “Please don’t leave me.”

          “I won’t.” Sherlock smiled at him, still as handsome as ever, “I’ll be with you as long as you need me.”

          “Forever,” John whispered. His eyes were getting heavy, and he struggled to stay awake. “Don’t leave me…”

          “I’m here, John, I’m here with you always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I have a lot of sad feels.


End file.
